Feeling: The black, oily airborne dirt that, over time, inexorably insinuates itself into the brick of industrial centres until brick and dirt are as one.

Listening: The thunderingly deadened pressure of blood coursing through the arteries that, noose-like, ensnare the inner workings of my ear.

The end of the year presses heavily upon us; not only is it pushing toward us from the front, but it has us surrounded. It presses in on the small of our back, between our fingers, under our arms, in the soft crevice of our neck beneath the chin, and if we let ourselves sleep it will press in on our eyelids until we taste it creeping acidically up the back of our throats.

Fourth consecutive all-nighter. Without sleep, I am numb enough to succeed.